Till Death do Us Part
by england-has-swag
Summary: Drugs are like a wedding vow... Till death do us part. Oneshot. Warnings: Drugs, Major Character Death


This cycle. Oh, how it is unbreakable. It should be so simple. So easy. Break a chain, and the others will fall. But no. Things have to always follow this pattern. If only he could get away. If only he could escape reality and himself.

This time. This time he'd promised himself he wouldn't go back. Arthur kept telling himself not to go back. As he had time, and time again. It made him feel absolutely sick to his stomach that he was driving back right at this moment. The need had overtaken him, though. The want had become too strong. He was too far in this to leave. It was to the point where he was feeling physical cravings for the toxins he was putting in his body. It happened like this every time. Snort, get high, come down, repeat. It was the first cycle in a long list of cycles. The second was where he decided this was too much. He needed to get away. Look at what he was doing to himself. Look at what he was doing to the people he loved by hurting himself... So he might stay off of it for a day or two. The longest had even been a week. Oh, how proud he'd been. But the craving always came back. That little voice in his head. You need it. Don't lie to yourself, Arthur. You're so fucking worthless without it. Think of all you can do. Think of how good it will feel. He'd battle with it for hours. Eventually, after trying to convince himself otherwise of this, he'd always lose, and drive back to his dealer.

...and that's where he was now; in that part of the cycle. In his car, shaking with anticipation of the high. And it had been so long since he'd done it. It would feel _so_ good. He barely needed to think to drive to the run-down house anymore. He could get there with his eyes closed he knew the path so well. With the feeling of anticipation also came a slight feeling of disappointment in himself. It wasn't too late to turn back. He could do it. Last a few more weeks. Come on, Arthur. You can do it.

But he can't. And that was the endless torment of his sick cycle that he couldn't seem to escape from. Because circles have no end, and no beginning. It is impossible to escape now. He desperately wishes that he would've never tried these sinful substances in the first place. He can remember that night so clearly. More clearly than he could any other, even more than the night he got married. So many memories were blurred or lost now. He was so hopeless. It wasn't too late to turn back.

Arthur had been so stupid. It had been at a party when he had tried his first line. His twenty first birthday party, to be exact. It wasn't at his own house. He'd gone out. It was a night of a few of his friends and himself celebrating. Instead of throwing a party, they'd found one. Easier that way. Less clean up, etc.

One of the hosts had beckoned him into the back room. The room was so much more quiet. More calm, even. It smelled slightly of mold and dust, as did the rest of the house, but unlike where the party was going on, it didn't have bright, flashing lights, and music that shook through your bones and the frame of the house, making everyone dance in pulsing motions to the beat. Nice. Quiet.

Arthur was already a little drunk, and he couldn't hold his liquor very well. In any other situation, maybe if he had been sober, then he wouldn't have done it. It's a party, they'd said. Lighten up. Have fun. So he did a line. Happy Birthday to him.

The feeling was incredible. Like nothing he'd ever felt before. Everything was so clear, yet the lines were so blurred. It was like he could see everything at once, yet there was not enough to see. The first thing he'd thought when waking up on the floor in the house of his host was that he'd been missing out. All these years, and he found the meaning to life. A reason to live. To feel that good was to really live. He needed it again. Past his pounding headache, he'd had a chat with the host of the house about that snow light substance that he'd inhaled last night. There was no problem in getting him more.

And now he was here. At the house again. Where he came so very often. It wasn't too late to turn back.

He got out, quietly shutting the door. It was late at night. That's okay. They had already assured Arthur that they were always open. With that sickly sweet, so tempting smile. He knocked, and a man answered in a worn-out, tired sounding voice. What was he here for? That was a ridiculous question. At least to him, it seemed. He simply stuttered out the words, itching his arm slightly as he spoke. He was let in. It wasn't too late to turn back.

Then, a few minutes later, he was driving to his shitty apartment on the other side of town. He had a little present for himself. He'd bought more than he usually did. He'd been saving. For something. Anticipation was clouding his thoughts, and he couldn't remember what that was. Something not as important as what he had now. Maybe a car. Or some food. No. Not as important. It wasn't too late to turn back.

Park the car, hurry up to your apartment, close and lock the door. Head to the bathroom. He always took the first hit in the bathroom. It was the only place with a mirror. Where he could see himself change as the high came. He quickly cut up two lines. Only two tonight. He had to save it. He needed it now. Couldn't go without it. Had to have it. Like food, or water. He had to ration it. Maybe a little more later tonight... It wasn't too late to turn back.

He stared at the reflection for a straight five minutes. He was sickly pale now. His eyes had dark bags under them, and were sunken into his skull. A walking, talking, barely ever smiling skeleton. Aside from the fact that the skin hung down slightly from his face. He sighed. With his rolled up dollar, he took the first line, sniffed, rubbed his nose. Onto the second. He was so good at this now. The first few times, the tube had been rolled too tight, or he couldn't do an entire line at once. But he was so good at it now. Practice made perfect. It would be such a shame for him to give that up now. It was too late.

He looked in the mirror once more. His pupils were already dilated. His messy hair, yellowed, rotting teeth, stubbled face, and over all frighteningly sick appearance changing. Becoming something beautiful. This was his life. This is what he lived for. His hopes and dreams mattered no longer. Not as he was like this. What was the harm in a few more lines, again? He could no longer remember. So one more. Two more. Three. Maybe another.

A week later, the smell from his apartment alerted his neighbors that something was wrong. Rotting flesh has a certain smell to it. Horrid. The smell of death. He'd died that night. A drug overdose. It was too late to turn back. You couldn't undo death.

Drugs are almost like a marriage vow... Till death do us part.


End file.
